Author Notes: It's been a while, since I last posted anything, but the last few weeks have been rather busy - as usual - but I hope that this story makes up for my long silence. This is just the first chapter and I will post the other two chapters, in the upcoming weeks. :)

Let me know what you think of the chapter. :)

A Surprise awaits

The house wasn't what John had expected at all. When Sherlock had invited him to his parent's house for the birthday of his father, John had imagined some kind of mansion. A huge building with countless rooms, cold and impersonal, surrounded by daunting hedges or a dark forest. The reality felt anticlimactic in comparison. John rubbed his eyes for the numerous times - maybe he had fallen asleep in the car - as he slung his travel back over his good shoulder and followed Sherlock to the front door of the... cottage. Yes, it was nothing more than a cottage. A nice little and very welcoming cottage, which John loved on sight, but he couldn't wrap his head around the fact that Sherlock's parents lived here. And if that was impossible, it became completely surreal, when he tried to picture Sherlock and Mycroft as children in the country. Of course, Sherlock still enjoyed running around in the fresh air and it wasn't so hard to picture him climbing on trees and exploring fields, but... Sherlock just didn't appear like he had grown up this way. He behaved so posh, almost snobbish on occasions, that John had never imagined him growing up in such an average environment. And when he thought about it like this, then Mycroft became an even bigger mystery than John had at first thought. Still, maybe, their parents weren't as average as the outward experience of their home led to believe.

"Sherlock," John started as his friend put down his own bag to search his coat pockets for something - either the latchkey or his mobile. John didn't know anything about Sherlock's parents and he hadn't asked on the car ride from London, because... it had been awkward. Everything between them was awkward, since...

"Sherlock! Why are you standing outside?" John stared at the middle-aged woman, who had thrown open the front door and was enfolding his friend in a bone-crushing hug, while scolding him for his lateness at the same time. No doubt, this woman had to be Sherlock's mother, although she didn't fit together with the picture John had created of her in his mind. She neither wore a silk dress and high heels nor was she cold and aloof. No, she was warm and welcoming, just like Mrs. Hudson and... she had Sherlock's piercing gaze and his high cheekbones, John realised when she let go of her son and turned towards him. "Mrs. Holmes, it's a pleasure to..."

"Ah, none of these stupid formalities, my dear." Mrs. Holmes bypassed John's outstretched hand and hugged him as well. "You can call me Violet or Mum - my boys prefer Mummy - but none of this Mrs.' nonsense."

"Alright Mrs... Er, Violet," John stuttered, after she had released him and earned a warm smile. So much for snobbish and cold. If anything, Mrs. Holmes... No, Violet - he should call her by her name in his head, if he didn't want to slip - was even more affectionate than John's own mother and she had already been a very friendly woman. Strange, that her sons were - in comparison - so closed off. Maybe, their father wasn't as warm as his wife.

Before John got the chance to follow this train of thought, Violet ushered them inside - a hand on Sherlock's back and a smile on her face - and into the living-room. A fire was crackling in the fireplace and drinks were placed on a small table in the middle of the room, which was surrounded by comfortable - and worn looking - armchairs, which John took a liking to right away. No wonder that Sherlock loved 221B so much, John mused with a smile as he glanced at the outdated wallpaper and noted the cluttered bookshelf in one corner of the room. Only the skulls and bullet holes in the wall were missing, but otherwise the living-room of Sherlock's parent's home was very similar to their own one.

"Here, my dear, try the punch. Scott made it after an old recipe of his grandfather." John accepted the glass and was barely able to express his gratitude, before Violet turned her attention back on Sherlock. "Sit down, young man. You make me crazy, when you stand around like a stranger in your own home. And take off your coat and... No, give it to me. You'll only scatter your things around the house. Drink a glass of punch and I'll see where your father and Mycroft are." John couldn't hold back a chuckle, when he watched Violet marching from the room, with Sherlock's coat over her arm and a determined expression on her face. At least, that solved the puzzle where Sherlock learned to speak so fast without taking a breath in between words.

"Mycroft is in his room and father is outside, checking on the moles as usual. If she hadn't taken my coat, I could have told her as much," Sherlock muttered to himself, but there was no real heat behind his words, as he helped himself to a glass of punch and sat down in one of the armchairs. John merely arched an eyebrow at Sherlock's compliance of his mother's orders and followed his example as he sat down in the armchair opposite his friend - leaving two armchairs on his left side and one armchair on his right free between Sherlock and himself.

"Your mother is really nice," John remarked and took a sip from his glass, only to have his eyes widen in awe. "Wow, the punch is delicious." It was the first time in the last week, that John saw a real smile on Sherlock's face, when he met his gaze. Not his polite smile, which he used to gain information from witnesses and which only turned his lips upwards but left his eyes untouched. No, this one transformed Sherlock's whole face, as the lines around his eyes crinkled and his pupils widened in real joy. Maybe, it hadn't been such a bad idea to accompany Sherlock to his parents after all, John mused as he took another sip of his - absolutely fantastic - punch. If nothing else, it was good to see Sherlock smiling once more.

"My Dad used to give us a glass of punch, whenever he deemed it necessary to put the recipe to good use - which usually was for family celebrations - although most people deemed us too young to try alcohol. Mummy was furious with him, when she found out why..."

"You had retched on the new carpet and spoiled the whole birthday party, just because you snatched another glass of punch from one of the guests, brother dear. Good afternoon, John." Mycroft nodded at him politely, but John could barely stop himself from snarling at the elder Holmes' brother as he watched how Sherlock's face became blank once more. His friend rarely told John anything about his childhood or his family and of course, Mycroft had to spoil the one time he did.

"At least, I didn't eat half the birthday cake, so that Mummy had to bake another one, instead of taking the time to go to the coiffeur as she had planned." Mycroft merely rolled his eyes at Sherlock's remark and sat down on John's left side, leaving one chair between his brother and himself. "I wasn't the one, who sat fire to my hair on Christmas, just because..."

"Boys, stop that!" Violet carried a tray with sandwiches and slices of cake into the room and glared at her sons, which shut up at once - Mycroft with a cold nod and Sherlock with a pout. John made a note to ask her how she was able to work such a miracle. It would come in handy, when John wanted to watch the next episode of Doctor Who in peace.

"And you must be Doctor Watson." John jumped at the voice next to his seat and then scrambled to his feet to extend his hand to the man, who had to be Sherlock's father. "John, please," he offered and nodded to Violet to include her in the offer, although he doubted that she would call him anything else.

"Scott," Sherlock's father smiled openly at him and shook John's hand, his eyes crinkling pleasantly. "I can't even start to tell you how happy I'm that you two were able to make it. Violet and I wanted to get to know you, ever since Sherlock told us about you, but you know how he is." It wasn't a question and therefore, John merely hummed as Scott gave his hand one final squeeze and then sat down in the armchair next to Mycroft, which put Violet between John and Sherlock. Before John was able to wonder if that was bad or good, she raised her glass and toasted to her husband. "To you, Darling, and to the next seventy years."

Neither Mycroft nor Sherlock pointed out to their mother that it was impossible for a human to live for 140 years as they all drank to the health of Scott Holmes. Either they feared the wrath of their mother or they didn't want to think about a world without their father. Judging from Sherlock's happy expression, it was the latter, although John wasn't able to tell if the same applied to Mycroft, as his expression was a polite mask as always.

John shrugged inwardly - he didn't care about Mycroft beyond the fact that he was Sherlock's brother - and accepted a sandwich from Violet, who padded his arm with a smile. "It's nice to have an additional guest." She squeezed John's shoulder and Scott nodded at her words. "Yes, it's a rather small round with only the four of us. Don't get me wrong, John," Scott winked at him. "I adore Violet and my sons, but sometimes it's nice to have someone else in the house. I still remember the parties, we housed at every birthday, when Sherlock was still a child. A shame that our extended family doesn't accept our invitations anymore."

"It's not my fault!"

John's eyes snapped to Sherlock, who had managed to fit his whole body in the armchair - as usual - and had his arms slung around his legs with his glass balanced on one boney knee. A year ago, John would have missed the tension in Sherlock's body and how he grinded his teeth as he fixed the sandwiches with a glare or if he had noticed it, he would have dismissed it as misplaced aggression. As it was, John knew his friend well enough to recognize, when Sherlock acted defensive and he just wondered what had happened to cause such a reaction. It had probably something to do with their extended family and why they didn't visit Scott and Violet anymore, but John was at a loss as to what could have happened. God only knew in how many ways Sherlock could insult people and it was likely that he had disclosed an affair or an addiction of a cousin, which had led to an estrangement of the family. Still to hold a grudge after so many years was rather juvenile.

"Of course, it's not your fault, Darling." John glanced to his right and caught a glimpse of Violet ruffling her son's dark curls. "We never blamed you for it." No one - not even Mycroft - disagreed with her statement and Sherlock's posture relaxed and he even helped himself to a slice of cake, while he smiled at his mother.

Strange, John mused quietly and by that he didn't mean that Sherlock's close family obviously supported him in whatever had happened, but... that something huge had happened in Sherlock's past and John didn't know about it. The thought dug a cold hole in the pit of John's stomach - even as he accepted another glass of punch - as it reminded him of the incident a week ago... and Sherlock's unexplainable behavior.

"You could do the shopping once in a while, you know." John muttered to himself, when he put the shopping bags on the floor in the kitchen and opened the fridge and then... groaned. When he had left in the morning, there had only been a box with fingers on the top shelf, but they had gotten company in the form of a right leg, a left arm and toes, now.

"Sherlock!"

"What is it now?" His friend appeared in the kitchen doorway and glared at John, before he glanced at the opened fridge and arched an eyebrow. "There is still a free shelf left. I did without the intensities, because I knew that you would insist on wasting storage room for something edible."

John didn't know if he should scream or laugh at Sherlock's honest bewilderment. His friend didn't fill the fridge with body parts, because he wanted to annoy John, but rather because he didn't see anything wrong with it. Therefore, it was a sincere - if not even loving - gesture from Sherlock to keep one part of the fridge clean - or at least free - for the groceries. Actually, it would have been adorable, if it wasn't for the steaks, eggs and other perishable products he had bought at Tesco. John sighed quietly and then decided to stay calm, if only to irritate Sherlock, who was probably preparing for their usual argument already. "Next time, keep the highest shelf free of any body parts and put them into containers, so that they don't contaminate the other goods."

"Fine." Sherlock rolled his eyes and returned to the living-room, without sparing John another glance, who tried to figure out how to best store the groceries, without putting them on top of a severed arm. In the end, John only put the milk in the fridge and brought the cheese and eggs to Mrs. Hudson, who handed him a recipe for steaks with steamed vegetables and a bottle of red wine, after John had disclosed what had happened to their fridge.

"Dinner will be ready in twenty," John called to his friend, who laid in his thinking pose on the couch and merely responded with a huff. John rolled his eyes and opened the wine, while the vegetables steamed in the pot. Sometimes, Sherlock's mannerism was irritating, even after sharing a flat with him for a year. Still, most of the time, John found it adorable, how his friend would huff and grumble about offered food, but inhale the contents on his plate faster than a starving soldier. Of course, not everything Sherlock did was adorable - far from it - but then, it was brilliant, fascinating or utterly mad and John just loved it. Loved him.

He didn't halt in his preparations as the thought stroke him for the numerous time and instead arranged their dinner on the table - he had cooked spaghetti to go with the steaks and vegetables - and hummed to himself. The first time, John had realised that he loved Sherlock, it had been a small shock, until it had become yet just another part of John and there was no way that he would ever not love Sherlock. Body parts and dangerous experiments be damned, they wouldn't drive John away, because they were just as much a part of his friend as his brilliant deductions and his fabulous looks. Speaking of looks... John almost dropped the pan, when Sherlock emerged in the kitchen doorway and took his usual chair, after pouring them both a glass of wine. Sherlock always looked gorgeous, but with his ruffled hair - he had spent the better part of the day lying on the couch - and in his loose pajamas and dressing gown, with a relaxed smile on his face, he was the epitome of beauty to John.

"Are you going to stand there all evening and wait until the steaks jump onto the plates on their own? Because, I assure you, they won't." Sherlock's words were accompanied by a wink and a grin and John merely rolled his eyes, before putting a steak on each plate and sitting down opposite his friend.

"Cheers to you, too," John toasted Sherlock with his glass and then they ate in compatible silence. It would have turned out to be a nice, peaceful evening, if John hadn't looked up, when Sherlock had taken a sip of his wine and closed his eyes in utter bliss. Because somehow, the sight deactivated every defense mechanism John had put around his feelings for Sherlock and his mouth put them into words, without John's doing. "I love you."

Sherlock sputtered and then choked on his wine. "What... you...?"

The look of utter shock on his friend's face would have been hilarious in any other situation, but as it was, it made John's blood ran cold. Certainly, it couldn't mean anything positive that Sherlock hadn't already picked up on John's feelings, before today. John had almost convinced himself that Sherlock knew how he felt and just didn't know how to bring it up - wishful thinking, obviously - but it was unexpected that John's confession had caught his friend completely off guard. It also meant that Sherlock hadn't thought of John in this way and... No, he shouldn't get ahead of himself. Theorizing without enough data was always a bad idea, as Sherlock would tell him.

"I love you and I mean it in a romantic way," John clarified, after Sherlock had regained his breath and was staring at him with wide eyes. "Romantic way? Does that mean that you want to have sex with me?"

John frowned. "Not only that. It means that I want to become your... partner. Not only work related, but in every other part of your life as well and yes," he added, before Sherlock could interrupt him. "I would like to have sex with you, but if that's something you don't... I mean, I know what asexuality is and I would never... I would be content with whatever you enjoy and... I would never expect anything from you that you can't give, so..."

"I'm not asexual." Sherlock's strained voice interrupted John's pathetic speech. "I'm gay and I'm not a virgin either, if that was your next question."

"Okay, that's... good." John glanced at Sherlock's tense form, who was glaring down at the rest of his steak as if it had personally offended him. "Sherlock," he started, unsure of how to act, considering Sherlock's behavior and the new information. "If you don't return my feelings, that's..."

"Don't say fine!" Blue eyes pierced John's, before they were lowered to the half eaten meal once more. "I'm not as emotionally incapable as not to understand how it would affect you if your feelings weren't returned, especially since you are not prone to declaring your love without meaning it."

John managed to nod and shake his head at the same time as he tried to make sense of Sherlock's words. "But you just asked me to clarify if feelings in a romantic way mean that I want to have sex with you."

"Yes, because I have learned that most of the time, the words you used are just a polite way of inquiring if someone wants to have sex with you. I'm sorry if I offended you with the question." Sherlock still didn't meet John's eyes and he also didn't give any hint if he returned his feelings or not. He had merely given a lengthy speech to explain his own thought process, which didn't appear relevant to the most important question at hand. "Do you want to be in a relationship with me?"

A sigh escaped past Sherlock's lips and John almost feared that Sherlock's ignorance of the actual problem had been his way of letting John down gently, until he shrugged. "I don't know."

"Why don't you know? I mean, certainly you can tell me if you return my feelings or..."

"No!" Sherlock shook his head, but clarified, before John could flee from the table to lick his wounds in the privacy of his own room. "It's not that simple, I mean. Even if I return your feelings, it's... I can't make this decision so easily. It's just not... Argh!" Pale hands clenched at unruly curls and John was almost relieved that the situation was so hard on Sherlock. At least, it meant that it wasn't easy to brush John's offer of a relationship away so easily.

"If you are worried that it will destroy our friendship, please don't. I know that I can't guarantee anything, but I'm sure..."

"No, you can't be sure of anything. I can't be sure of anything!" Sherlock tore at his hair in aggravation. "That's exactly the point, it's not as easy as that and... Please, John!" Blue eyes met his and John gasped at the vulnerability in the deep seas. "Don't force me to make a decision, right away. I have to think, please!"

John gulped and nodded. There wasn't anything else, he could do. Not, when Sherlock was looking at him with so much desperation as if the whole world rested on his shoulders. "It's not... I mean, I can hope?" The question sounded pathetic, even to John's ears, but Sherlock only gave him a tight smile and nodded. "Yes, but I can't... I can't promise you anything."

John nodded once more and they resumed their meal in silence, although it didn't taste as good as before the whole disaster anymore. At least to John, it didn't, as he couldn't help himself but wonder why it was so hard for Sherlock to decide if he wanted to be in a romantic relationship with him or not.

John still didn't know what he should think about that incident. Especially, as Sherlock hadn't mentioned it again in any way. Life at 221B had just gone on as usual - which meant, explosions, body parts and violin music at three in the morning - for the past week . If it hadn't been for the cautious glances Sherlock had sent his way, John would have believed that he had imagined the whole exchange. As it was, the only comfort John got was from the fact that Sherlock appeared to twist his mind over the issue, if his agitated pacing and his restless sighs - when he believed John to be out of earshot - were anything to go by. Still, John didn't understand why it was so hard for Sherlock to make a decision. Certainly, if he wasn't interested in John at all, he would have told him so straight away. After all, Sherlock wasn't one to spare someone's feelings and he believed that it was kinder to reject someone out of hand, instead of torturing them with hope. This time, it would have even been kinder for Sherlock to reject John, but he hadn't done so. Instead, Sherlock appeared completely torn and John didn't know why. If he did, at least he could try to tip the scales in his favor, but as it was, John was left to wait for Sherlock's decision and he hated waiting.

"I'm going outside." Sherlock's voice startled John out of his thoughts and he watched his friend gracefully getting up from his chair. There was a split second, when their eyes met and an unnamed feeling flickered through the depths of the piercing, blue eyes, before it was gone a second later. John wondered if it meant that Sherlock had finally come to a decision and if he should follow him outside, when Mycroft got up from his chair as well. "I'll make sure that he doesn't smoke a whole pack of cigarettes," he announced to his parents and Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow at him, but didn't make a snide comment about the benefits of cigarettes versus cakes.

John blinked stupidly after the Holmes' brothers as they wandered into the garden and out of view. Either they were making an effort for their parents or they had to discuss some serious matters. Maybe a case of international importance had come up and Mycroft wanted his brother to do the legwork for him. It wouldn't be the first time and John couldn't imagine what else the brothers could talk about, without getting into a fight.

"Ah, these boys," Violet sighed and frowned at the plates of uneaten food. "They could never sit still. Sherlock always had an experiment or some exploring to do and Mycroft sneaked more often to the attic to read in peace than was considered healthy for a boy his age."

John frowned at the last sentence. "I don't think that there is anything wrong with reading."

"There isn't," Scott agreed, while his wife cleaned away the plates. "But both our families were very conservative and they believed that a boy should be wild and play outside, while a girl had to stay inside and help her mother with the chores - reading was also acceptable for a girl."

John couldn't wrap his head around this logic. His parents had had a few beliefs about how girls and boys should act as well, but they had given up on most of them, after they had realised that Harry was wilder than her brother. They certainly hadn't held onto some stupid ideals after their own children had proven to them that they didn't apply. Somehow, John was glad that he didn't have to meet the extended Holmes' family if they were as narrow-minded as Sherlock's father implied.

"At least, they must have been happy with Sherlock, then." If he had been as wild as John imagined he had been, then Sherlock must have been the prime example of a healthy boy after the definition of his relatives.

"No, they were too stupid to accept him as he was," Violet answered darkly and John wondered what she meant by that. Had Sherlock been too wild for his relatives to accept or had he always enjoyed disgusting experiments, which drove most people away? The truth was probably a combination of both options and John wished for the hundredths time that he had met Sherlock as a child. John must have voiced his thoughts aloud - or Violet had planned it all along - as she put a stack of photo albums on the table, in the next second. Five thick albums and as far as John could tell from the labeling, they only contained photos from 1980-1986. The first six years of Sherlock's life.

"He is going to kill me, if he finds out that I have seen photos of him as a child," John muttered as he opened the first album and Sherlock's parents sat down to his left and right. "He will only grumble a little, I know my son. And after all, my Darling has seen pictures of me in diapers as well." Scott sent his wife a besotted look and the moment was so sweet that John just couldn't tell them, that Sherlock and he weren't together. They appeared so happy about the fact that John was in Sherlock's life and it flattered John, although he would have been more happy if their assumption had been correct.

"Ah, that's my baby boy with his Daddy, one day after his birth." John smiled at the picture of a baby that already spotted dark, thick curls and was held in the camera by a proudly smiling man with just as curly hair. It was a lovely picture and John only wondered for a second why Sherlock wore a pink romper suit, before he dismissed that thought. Baby's didn't care what color they wore or with what gender it was associated as long as they were comfortable. Therefore, it shouldn't matter to the adults either.

John was treated to numerous pictures of baby Sherlock and he decided his favorite was of him waving a plush dolphin in the camera and sucking on his soother at the same time. His eyes were already of an ever changing blue and scanning the world around him with interest. Or maybe, the last part was only John's imagination, but he admitted freely that he was utterly besotted with baby Sherlock.

"He was so cute," John murmured in awe and Scott chuckled quietly and then handed John another album, this one reaching from 1982-1984. John chuckled at the first picture of Sherlock riding on Mycroft's back, but then frowned, when he turned the page and looked down at a little girl in a summer dress, carrying a bouquet of red poppies and smiling at whoever had taken the picture.

"Who is that?" Sherlock had never mentioned a sister or a close female relative - besides his mother - and John doubted that Violet had put photos of random children in their family album.

"Oh, Aurelia," Scott smiled down at the picture. "She was beautiful, just like her mother." A cold shudder ran down John's spin at the use of the past tense. The girl appeared to be of the same age as Sherlock at the time, so... a twin sister? A twin sister, who had died as a child and was never mentioned by Sherlock and his brother? A wave of sadness passed through John at the thought and he didn't know how he should ask about her - if he should ask at all - when Violet continued where her husband had left off. "Thanks, Darling, but we both know that she never really existed. Aurelia is just the name of a girl that was never born."

Now, they had lost him. John didn't understand one word of what Violet was talking about and it didn't start to make sense, even when he repeated the words in his head. How was it possible that their daughter had never existed, when there was a picture of her, right in front of John?

"I still think that he is lucky to have your eyes and face, Sweetheart." Scott squeezed Violet's hand over the table, while John was completely confused. HE? Where they still talking about Aurelia and had just confused the pronouns or were they talking about one of their sons?

"But he has your hair, Darling." Violet paged through the Album, until she found the picture she was looking for. The picture of a little girl, with dark, shoulder-length, curly hair, in a red dress and with the most piercing gaze, John had ever seen. Or no, that wasn't right. John narrowed his eyes at the picture of the smiling girl. He knew this piercing stare, very well and it had been directed at him more often than he could count. In fact, John had only found himself the subject of this all-seeing eyes this morning, but...

"I'm just glad Sherlock decided to keep it short. He managed to burn most of his hair, just after this picture was taken," she told John, without noticing his surprised look. "It's saver with short hair in his profession and it's also much curlier, don't you agree, dear?"

John opened his mouth to reply, but no words were coming forward. His mind was still reeling with all the information, that had been thrown at it and he didn't know how to react. It was all too much and Sherlock... Sherlock was...

"Aurelia is... was... Sherlock was born as Aurelia?" The question felt heavy on his tongue, but John needed to be sure about it. It would be too dangerous to theorize without a clear picture in his mind, although many pieces of the puzzle that was Sherlock Holmes started to shift into the right places, with that new possibility in mind. Though, he didn't have the time to analyze it farther, as the startled gasp from Violet heralded the start of another conversation. "You... but you have to know that!"

John shook his head and turned towards Sherlock's mother, who had paled considerably. "Sherlock hasn't told you, but you... I thought you are together. He talks so fondly of you and..." She clasped a hand over her mouth and John felt terrible for her. He should have told her that he wasn't Sherlock's boyfriend, instead of playing along with it, so that he could imagine himself in this role for a - at least - a little while.

"We aren't together and... Listen," John got up from his chair and glanced down at Scott, who was padding his wife's arm reassuringly. "It's... all fine, but I have to... I have to talk with Sherlock." He didn't wait for a reply - or for them to hold him back - as he hurried from the living-room and found his way to the garden. It was easy to spot Mycroft and Sherlock near a small pond and John didn't worry about interrupting a conversation of national importance as he marched over to where they stood. He had questions and Sherlock had the answers to them.